


Five times Feuilly came home (and one time he didn’t, but it was okay)

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Five Times + 1, Found Families, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home, to Feuilly, is simple: a room, no matter how small and dusty it is, friends that may be a family, and people to care for - and to take care of him.</p><p>[Written for a Five Times + 1 ask meme on tumblr.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Feuilly came home (and one time he didn’t, but it was okay)

**1**.

It’s small, and dusty, and the one window is too dirty to see the street below; the austere beige that covers the room is discoloured in places, and there’s a draft coming from under the door. The walls are paper thin, and the neighbours aren’t quiet.

But there’s also a bed in the corner of the room, which is miles better than the haystack of a mattress Feuilly had been sleeping on at the workshop; a little table, a chest to put his clothes in, a cupboard for bread and cheese and bowls, and a small but serviceable stove. It’s not too far from the workshop, but far enough not to encounter coworkers when he doesn’t want to. The drafty door has a lock, and the landlady, a Mme. Jackowska, has a kind and warm smile.

All in all, it seems to be a better place than anything Feuilly has ever lived in - and most importantly, it’s _his_.

“Home,” Feuilly whispers. He sets his bag on the bed, and looks around. He doesn’t quite feel it, not yet - perhaps he could hang some curtains on the window, find a little rug to place near the bed - but in his fifteen years, it’s the first time he is anywhere close to having a home to himself, and he smiles.

 

 **2**.

The days are short in Paris this time of the year; shorter than they ever were in the Midi where Feuilly grew up, even though cities tend to look the same no matter where you live. He realises how the lack of sunlight affects him more than he ever did before now, with the hour-long walk he has to take just to get to his room from the workshop in the evening - avoiding the shortcuts he could take in the morning, too dangerous for a boy like him in the dark, no matter how he once knew the dark corners and backstreets of Paris like his home.

Honestly, Feuilly would have rather used these precious few hours of day to read. Still, the long distsance between the workshop and his building was a small price to pay to be able to sit on his bed, undisturbed, with no chores to do for the old fanmaker in exchange for a roof over his head and one meal a day. So every night, Feuilly lit his small candle, allowing himself a short hour of reading before exhaustion claimed him and he fell asleep against his thin pillow, dreaming of the hills and mountains and villages and cities that an orphan could call home.

 

 **3**.

Feuilly doesn’t usually stay in one café for long - he prefers to find a new one every other week, staying a stranger to the regular clientele for as long as he can. When people start nodding to him in aknowledgement or in recognition, it’s a sign he needs to go just a bit further down the street next time he wants a warm meal and a cup of coffee. This way, no one will look at him twice. People’s eyes on him unnerve Feuilly; he always feels as if the older workers are challenging him, daring him to join them, to justify his presence.

Feuilly can talk about politics, about Italy and Poland and the Peoples (with a tall ‘P’ and a ‘s’); prompted or not, these words never stick in his throat. They want to burst from his heart and he doesn’t think he could keep them in even if he tried. The other workers, they glare at him, yell at him sometimes, and frankly Feuilly doesn’t mind. But if they want him to drink with them, to grab his shoulder and speak in his ear and become friends - that’s the line Feuilly can never cross.

That is, of course - until the Musain.

Honestly, if Enjolras hadn’t dragged him there after a workers’ meeting he'd been listening in, Feuilly doesn’t think he would have ever considered sitting in this student’s café; after all, while he has very little in common with the workers from the usual cafés, he shares even less with the bourgeois student and their concerns - or so he thought. When the tall bald man in the green coat - Lesgles - recognizes him from another café and greets him with a firm handshake, every single one of Feuilly’s instincts is telling him to run, but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s the warmth in Lesgles’ eyes, maybe it’s the solid comfort of Enjolras’s arm against his. Maybe it’s the other students’ voices repeating the words Feuilly has fo so long only ever heard in his own.

But he feels like he belongs, here in this students’ café’s backroom.

 

 **4**.

For Feuilly, each of his friends represents a piece of home:

Courfeyrac is the warmth and kindness of the fireplace on a cold winter morning; Combeferre is the light from his candle, helping him learn, there by his side when he stuggles to understand something new. Prouvaire is the sun coming from the window on the first day of spring when a heavy rain finally cleans the dirt and Feuilly can see that the trees on the other side of the street are in bloom. Joly and Bossuet are the blankets and pillow on his bed, comforting and gentle when he needs it, always making him feel better after a long day. Bahorel is his neighbours, rowdier than necessary but a reasuring constant in his mind. Grantaire is the bakery a few houses from his, familiar and enjoyable - when he is in the right mood.

Enjolras is the first person in a long time who Feuilly feels listen to him, and understand him, and maybe even love him, in his own way.

Perhaps this is what having a family feels like.

 

**5.**

It’s July 1830 and Feuilly has been gone for almost three days, which is unusual for him; and when he turns up in the middle of the night, his clothes torn and dirty and blood stains on the side of his face, Mme. Jackowska wordlessly fetches some water and a rag and helps him get rid of the tattered shirt that sticks to his shoulder - thanfully, most of the blood isn’t his. She insists on helping him wash his hair, though Feuilly repeats that he isn’t injured, he can do it. Mme. Jackoswska slaps his hand away, and moves as though she wants to hold him; she kisses his forehead instead, whispering words in her native Polish that Feuilly doesn't understand, but recognize as a prayer.

It's been 8 years since Feuilly first moved in that small, dusty room he calls home, and though neighbours and tennants have gone and gone, Mme. Jackowska is as kind and perceptive as ever, and Feuilly has found he can keep nothing from her. She knows where he’s been. He doesn’t need to explain. Which is just as well, because he doesn’t think he can find the words just yet.

 

**+1.**

When Feuilly opens his eyes - and it takes more energy than it should, he’s pretty sure - the first thing he notices is that the curtains against the window aren’t his.

The second thing he notices is that the bed is larger, and warmer than his.

The third thing he is aware of is Enjolras, a little crease between his eyebrows, gently snoring next to him.

They’re both fully clothed - well, almost. Feuilly is wearing what are probably Enjolras’ night clothes, and the uncomfortably restrictive bandages on his chest have been loosened - or rather removed, he finds upon closer inspection. He’s also extremely thirsty, and he feels like he has been asleep for weeks. The last thing he can remember is feeling feverish, and breathing being harder than comfortable; but the fever seems to have gone, and while his throat is still raw, his lungs don’t hurt anymore.

He should probably get up, gather his things, apologize for the trouble - and go home. He is so tired, though, and Enjolras looks absolutely exhausted, even in sleep, so Feuilly thinks he’ll rest some more. Just for a little bit.

Besides, right in this moment he’s too comfortable to move.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! as always, comments are appreciated, and you can always hit me up on tumblr @ [ravenclawfeuilly](http://ravenclawfeuilly.tumblr.com/)


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